


Descended Children

by Sharinarra



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-01-29 10:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12629019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharinarra/pseuds/Sharinarra
Summary: The Age of the God-Born Heroes has long since faded into myth and legend.But the Cycle of the Ages is just that - a Cycle.The Wheel turns and the forgotten bloodlines of the Demi-gods stir. The Gods themselves cannot cross the veil between worlds these days. Not while the One God still holds such sway. But the Ages of Enlightenment and Reason have come and gone, and now the Age of Skepticism is in full swing. And with it, comes a loosening of the veil.The Gods cannot pass through it - yet.But they can reach out their power to the mortal lands of Earth once more. They can feel the faint, dormant beat of the descendants of the God-Born Heroes of old. They can stir the embers of what was, and bring to life the roaring flames of divine potential.The One God has long left their peoples alone, to flounder and fail of their own choices and will.The Pantheons are a lot more… practical, in their approach.





	1. Prologue

### Prologue 

The Gods are real. The people of the ancient world knew this to be true.

But that was long ago. A time when the Gods walked the lands in physical form, talking, dancing, and frequently getting close with mortals who caught their eye; the bright souls, the special ones; gifted and beautiful.  
That was a time of demi-gods and monsters. The Age of children born of mixed divinity and mortality.

The Age before the One God; He of the Judaic, Muslim, and Christian faiths.

The Age when the Pantheons had reign over the lands and souls of their people. Before over half the world was converted to the One God - by money, by sword, and eventually by traditions and lies in equal measure.

 

The Age of the God-Born Heroes has long since faded into myth and legend.

But the Cycle of the Ages is just that - a Cycle.

The Wheel turns and the forgotten bloodlines of the Demi-gods stir. The Gods themselves cannot cross the veil between worlds these days. Not while the One God still holds such sway. But the Ages of Enlightenment and Reason have come and gone, and now the Age of Skepticism is in full swing. And with it, comes a loosening of the veil.

The Gods cannot pass through it - yet.

But they can reach out their power to the mortal lands of Earth once more. They can feel the faint, dormant beat of the descendants of the God-Born Heroes of old. They can stir the embers of what was, and bring to life the roaring flames of divine potential.

The One God has long left their peoples alone, to flounder and fail of their own choices and will.

The Pantheons are a lot more… practical, in their approach.

 

The Age of Monsters cycles close once more, and Heroes must rise to meet them.

The Pantheons begin their work.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It takes Hephaestus barely a minute to find the perfect soul for his spark. A descended child of his Roman mask, with blood of the Gaelic druids, Howard Stark has a soul that shines like a beacon of potential to the Smith of the Gods. Left to nurture it alone, it would have taken a stroke of luck on the level of Paris successfully hitting Achilles Heel with his poisoned arrow to take his untaught potential into the realm of acknowledged genius.  
With the spark of Hephaestus, there is no boundary of technology that Howard Stark cannot think his way beyond, if he simply puts in the work. It is probably for the best that he becomes so easily distracted by the next challenge. It is absolutely to the good that a descendant child of Hestia - born of her blood gifted to one extraordinary mortal long ago - finds his way into Howard’s life, and becomes the most loyal defender and carer that any genius child of Science could wish for. 

When the spark of Hephaestus only grows as it is passed on to the next generation of Stark, the world would never know just how much it owed to one Edwin Jarvis, and his Hestia-born care and moral guidance for both the father and the young heir. Without it, the apocalypse could very easily have come earlier than any seer could possibly predict.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Artemis finds her best descendants working side by side in a circus; two boys, brothers, orphaned and alone; the descended children of a favoured Huntress of Artemis. One who had fallen afoul of men, but refused to turn her hatred of them onto the twin son and daughter she bore as a result of that event.

The two boys, so many centuries later, both bear far more than just a hint of the Huntress’s gift, but it is to the younger brother that she looks when she seeks to fan that gift to something greater. Artemis will never grant her favour to one who is unworthy, and a male - even if he is the only suitable candidate - must be something truly extraordinary.

Clint Barton is extraordinary. The gentlest soul she has ever seen, with a will of tempered steel. A true Hunter, one who takes no pleasure in the kill itself, but rather enjoys the chase, and will always treat his quarry with the respect it deserves. Like all of Artemis’s favoured, he has known much pain and loss. He is hurt, and he is broken, and he never once allows it to twist him away from the truly good man that he is at his core. 

Artemis sees him.

The young circus hand picks up a bow, unsure as to why, only knowing that he wants this. Needs this. 

Artemis lays her hands on his.

Hawkeye is born.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

In Russia, a woman with blood red hair seduces a man. It is not the first time. It will be far from the last. When she leaves he will be dead, and her handlers will already have another target lined up for her. Mission will follow mission will follow mission as she grows ever stronger. As her knives drink ever deeper.

Natalia Romanova has never had much difficulty with seduction. She was born with looks and grace that drew in everyone who saw her, like moths to a flame. She was born with the appeal of Aphrodite. She was born with the deadly grace of Kali. Both laid their blessings upon her, this descendant child of a double blooded line.

The Red Room looked upon her and saw an Asset with the potential to top even the great Asset himself. She was trained and pushed accordingly, right up to the moment that the independence and will of her divine ancestresses brought the walls of her conditioning tumbling down into dust.

 

Some months later, a Hunter looked down his sights at a target. A child of the Moon felt his soul twinge in recognition of a child of the Ocean’s Foam. And he made a different call.

It took the patience only a true hunter can have, but in time, Shield found itself with an Agent of incredible skill. The Hawkeye found a sister and partner he could trust with his life. The broken girl found a family she would love and defend with all the fierce fires of her heart. 

 

The Black Widow was the wrath and blades of Kali.

Natalia Romanova was the love and perception of Aphrodite.

Natasha Romanoff was the perfectly blended child of them both.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Steven Grant Rogers, the self-sacrificing child of the emerald isle’s people; reborn heart of gold who could, would, and did throw himself, time and again, into the fight. Who refused to let a burden pass him by that could rest on his shoulders and save another from it. Who knowingly and willingly - or so he thought at the time - gave his life to save his people from the fires (and everyone who wasn't a bully was part of his people).

To the complete surprise of every god of every pantheon, Steve Rogers had not a single drop of divine heritage. At all.

But that did not mean he wasn't chosen. Steve had chosen himself to step up to that plate. To stand firm in the face of the monsters of the world and give his all to protect his people from them. 

Steve Rogers awoke from the ice to the shock and overwhelming change of a new century. He could, then, be forgiven for missing it, in the adjustment period. Wherever he walked, life seemed to follow. Moss and ivy in the streets where he walked habitually grew faster and healthier, no matter the season or weather. Local animals, both feral and tame, shadowed him everywhere. There was never a moment where some animal or plant was not yearning towards him, watching him. Later, he was always too busy with the fight to see it; that injured people he held, agents and civilians alike that he comforted and reassured; all healed faster than they perhaps should have. All felt a warm glow inside of their hearts.

And Jack-of-the-Green watched over him with a smile.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bruce Banner, on the other hand, was quite a study in contrast. Born not of one, or even two divine lines, but three; he held the wit and intelligence of Athena; the innate perceptions of the boundaries between magic and science of Thoth; and the chaotic, deep-rooted, destructive rage of Persephone. 

Thoth and Athena were quite happy to share their blessing. They recognised the brilliance of Bruce’s mind and knew that with their blessings working in tandem, he could become and create something truly extraordinary.

Persephone, however, was jealous. She had only the one remaining descended child, and she did not want to share. And so, at a key point in the process of creating an experimental recreation of the super-soldier serum, she nudged a thought here and shifted a hand there, and the rage of her child was let loose with a body that finally matched it.

 

In a very real sense, Bruce Banner became the child of two divine lines, while the Hulk was purely and entirely the child of Persephone. The one part of her life that she did not have to share, and that was not ruled or dictated by any other. And she would watch over him zealously.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Asgard, meanwhile, didn't even know that they literally could not reach Midgard anymore. Odin had never informed them as to the reason that no Asgardian was to travel there, choosing to simply forbid it, instead. The Asgardians had always had the thinnest veil between themselves and the mortal earthling world. Even at the height of the Christian might, there were those who clung to the old ways, and this new Age of skepticism and mysticism in equal mix had brought them back to notice quickly and efficiently.

Heimdal watched, and saw the preparations of the other pantheons.

Odin waited. Knowing that the way to Midgard would soon reopen.

Two princes continued to live, laugh, fight, and grow. Unknowing of the great changes and revelations that were to come.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

But this.

This is not the story of any of these great Heroes of the new Age.

These are the stories of the quiet children. The ones who provide the support, and who guide and advise the boisterous and visible children of the louder Gods.

The Gods of Death had no way to reach out to their descendants. The nature of the veil between life and death prevented even that much for them. But they were patient. They knew that when the time was right, their descended children would come to them, hovering on the brink, and then they could truly begin.


	2. Chapter One: Of Cats, Canines, and Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Darcy Lewis. She is the first of the Death Descended to meet her ancestor.

### Chapter One - Of Cats, Canines, and Family. 

Darcy Lewis was a very active little girl. Her gregarious nature and near chronic inability to turn down a challenge led to her getting into more than a few scrapes, and also saw her becoming a regular at the A&E. Her parents adored her, but most often found themselves depairing of the child who was far more likely to be found halfway up a tree or darting through the nearby graveyard while in the midst of some epic imaginary quest than to be doing her homework.

She was an intelligent child. All of her teachers, and every adult to have more than a passing contact with her, were in complete agreement on that. She just… didn’t seem to care about academics. By far her best subject was History, as it was so full of epic battles and wonderful stories that sparked her imagination. That they were true just made them even better. So it was to no great surprise of her parents that the morning of a school trip to the local museum - in order to see the Egyptian exhibit that was on loan from the Smithsonian Natural History Museum - saw Darcy up at the crack of dawn, and barely able to stay in one spot as she waited - bouncing impatiently on her toes - to leave. 

The exhibit itself was a wonderland to the fertile mindscape of the young girl, darting from case to case, reading every plaque intensely, and getting swept up in the guides dramatic telling of the Egyptian creation myths. But something was strange… she almost felt that she already knew some of these stories. Like the tales of Osiris and Isis, and the descriptions of the journey the dead would take to the afterlife. The guide spoke, but the delicate soprano of the petite blonde was overlaid with a slightly rasping, almost purring, voice, and Darcy watched the hieroglyphs on the wall as they moved, illustrating the tales as they were told.

As they were lead deeper into the rooms hosting the exhibit, she felt something niggling at her mind, and following it, found a replica temple arch guarded by two jackal statues. Beneath it sat a small altar, bearing a set of urns topped by different heads, and a row of odd looking tools in front of them.

“The Altar of Anubis” came the tour guide’s voice from behind her. “Jackal-headed God of Funeral Rites and Graveyards, tasked with guiding souls across the threshold between life and death. Those tools are from the process they used to make mummies, and the jars are where they placed the important organs, to keep safe and bury beside the mummy.”

“Really?” asked the awed Darcy “That’s so cool! And gross! Why’d they need to take the organs out in the first place? And which jars did they go in?”

“Ah, well that is a very clever part of the process. You see, the Egyptians knew that dead bodies tended to rot, and they believed that the soul would need a working body in the afterlife. So they created mummies to preserve the body for the soul to use. But they also knew that leaving all the squishy bits inside would cause rot. So they took out all of the organs and stored them in the jars, that way the dead person would have them available in the afterlife, and they wouldn’t rot the body.” 

“Coooooll! Aren’t there more organs than there are jars, though?”

“Well, yes. But not all of them were considered important or needed. The lungs, of course, were important, and those went in the jar with the baboon head. Then there was the stomach, that went in the jar with the jackal head, the liver with the human head, and the intestines with the falcon head.” She pointed at each jar in turn as she listed them, and somewhere in the back of Darcy’s head, a voice whispered North, East, South, West, one for each Son of Horus… but that was a later idea. They started blank, or as humans, or sometimes as Anubis.

Fascinated, Darcy stayed at that arch, studying the altar and reading the plaques over and over again to herself, as the group moved on to the next spot. As she finally moved on to the rest of the exhibit, she found herself catching glimpses of fur out of the corner of her eye, a tail whipping behind a stand, a quiet purring in her ear. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In a graveyard, an elegant black cat with startlingly golden eyes sat on the roof of a small mausoleum, watching the six year old girl with the obnoxiously bright and clashing taste in clothing. The child appeared to be playing some variant of Explorer-Archeologist: Egyptian Tombs edition. 

Amused, Bast purred absently in the back of her host-cat’s mind. Much like the Asgardians, there had long been a strong enough love and near worship of cats - a love growing only stronger in the past century - that the veil keeping her from physically reaching the mortal world did not prevent Bast from having a more active ability within it than the other members of her family. 

Specifically, she was able to not only see through the eyes of certain cats, but also to direct them and project her thoughts out to any strongly blooded enough descended child of the Pesedjet.

Bast’s own descended lines had died out, but she was not going to let a little thing like that stop her from doing her part as a protectress of her people. She would just have to do it through a different bloodline, was all. The line of Anubis was rare, very rare, which was only to be expected. Her once-son was a quiet boy, and had never tended to interact much with the living, although he had been almost guaranteed to be present at any funeral procession. He was a watcher, a silent guardian, whose full work was never truly seen by those around him. 

The girl below her was one of only three children Bast had been able to locate, anywhere in the world, to bear the blood of Anubis in strong enough measure to see. And the only one to have the innate draw to the mortal expressions of her divine ancestors realm, let alone be strong enough to hear Bast’s projected comments during the trip to the museum. Yes. This girl would do very nicely. Ears twitching, Bast peered closer through her host-cat’s eyes when the child tripped and fell against the table tomb she had used for her game, barely missing a serious head injury. 

Every instinct Bast had screamed for her to intervene. She was the Protector of women and children, she was the once-mother of Anubis, she was - among other things - the Goddess of Family. And the crying girl-child of Anubis’s line below, whose spirit shone like the sunrise to her eyes, was her family.

Even as she struggled to keep herself aloof, her host intervened for her, and she found herself looking into the child’s eyes as the cat perched on her lap, purring gently. Taking stock of the situation, Bast considered her options. The most sensible thing to do would be to let her host comfort the child, and resume her watch unabated. The girl would come before Anubis in time. But Bast was, when all is said and done, a cat. Sometimes, the sensible thing is not the best thing, and sometimes patience just wasn’t worth it. 

There, in a crevice of the tablestone, lay a young copperhead snake… and under the roof of that tablestone sat the surprisingly accurate model of a shrine to Anubis that the girl had made for her game… and Bast could hear the child’s parents entering the graveyard to seek her…

Patience, it seems, was not on Bast’s list of virtues that day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darcy was just shaking off the adrenaline rush from the shock of her fall when the cat landed in her lap, and the comforting purr soothed her. Just as she raised her hand from scratching the felines ears up to her head to brush back a strand of hair, the cat suddenly hissed and leapt at her face, causing her to jerk backwards.

She didn’t see the purposeful stop in the cat’s lunge that prevented it from actually connecting.

She didn’t see how close she was to hitting her head again.

What she did see was her parents rounding the corner.  
The horror on their faces as they ran towards her.

And the snake, dangling from her arm, as she followed her mother’s terrified gaze…

Darcy’s vision wavered, and as she began to fall forward, reaching for her mother, everything went black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anubis sat and waited in his many pillared hall. 

Okay. So he was rather more ‘moodily laid out on the flagstones by the fire pit’ than ‘sat calmly in a chair.’

The point is, he was in his hall, whose walls were covered in the tales of his descendants, each one adding their mark as they died and passed through to the Duat. And he was absolutely not sulking as he stared at the empty spot that was waiting for the orphaned little girl he knew to exist. (Her mother had arrived before him five years previously, and spoke of her daughter glowingly. The father had apparently died during an overseas deployment.)

He was absolutely not sulking. And in no way was it because Bast had come by recently and told him that since her bloodlines had all died out, she was going to go and watch his instead. He did love his once-mother, but she was very much a cat at times, and didn’t always seem to quite realise how what she said or did might hurt. Or sometimes, care.

As he brooded on the various times that his once-mother had done or said something particularly hurtful - the distinct lack of care or understanding during the painful shift in pantheon positions and start of a new Pesedjet cycle that dethroned him from his place as Lord of the Underworld after Osiris’s deathly-resurrection sprang to mind - he missed the first twinges of a call.   
By the time he withdrew from his funk enough to notice anything outside of the crackling flames before him, the call of the veils threshold was loud, bursting over his senses like a tidal wave. Jerking himself upright and towards the door so fast as to give him whiplash if he were mortal, Anubis shook his head to dispel the worst of the ringing in his ears, and headed to the threshold of his hall - which was also, conveniently, the threshold of the veil between life and death for the Pesedjet sworn. In the mists that swirled thickly beyond the entrance, a small figure was taking form, heading unerringly towards him. As she approached, he could hear the wailing sobs of a hurting and traumatised child. And his nose picked up the scent of his own blood and power.

His eyes narrowed, even as he waited, aching to hold this child of his bloodline close, and drive all her pain and sorrow away. 

It could be no coincidence that the very girl he had been thinking of and that he knew his once-mother would have found herself gravitating towards, would be in the borderlands of his realm so soon after the cat went to watch his line. 

This was most definitely Bast’s fault. Somehow. 

He could yell at his once-mother for seriously endangering his descendant later.

Right now, there was a crying child to comfort. 

And an age and development related problem with giving her the Talk and Empowerment to find a solution to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darcy woke, her entire body once mass of pain, to a blurry white hospital ceiling and the strangely distant muffled voices of her parents. A dark and fuzzy head came into her view, and shone a bright light into her eyes, leaving her blinking tears, before she felt a spreading numbness creeping up her arm. 

She sighed in relief as the pain retreated, and faded back into sleep.

But not before catching a glimpse of a black puppy, incongruously lying atop a cabinet in the far corner, strangely sharp and defined in comparison to the blurry figure of - she assumed - the doctor. 

Her last thought before unconsciousness claimed her was how odd it seemed that a puppy would wear heavy gold eyeliner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******************************************************************************************************************************
> 
> So trying to make this good and internally consistent is a challenge.
> 
> I'm also having to do a lot of "pick your own myth-set" for the pantheon set ups, especially with the Pesedjet. The Egyptian pantheon had a lot of iterations over the millennia, and finding a nice blend is difficult to balance I've decided to go with a pantheon-specific cycles thing that allows for changes in the relations and roles as the stories about them changed over time. So in early stories, Bast was the mother of Anubis, and a much wilder lioness figure - the Protector of Lower Egypt, before she later settled into a gentler aspect - but as time went on and the tales of Osiris rose, that changed, and Anubis became the son of Nepthys, and stopped being the lord of the underworld.
> 
> He has always been the guardian of the graveyards however, and the swap from ruling to patron of embalmers and guide of the dead over the threshold was a logical progression of that role. 
> 
> I imagine him as a perpetual youth, late teens, and fairly quiet, given his general lack of starring roles in basically any of the myths.
> 
> The reason for not covering the actual meeting between Darcy and Anubis is simple; she is much too young and underdeveloped - both mentally and physically - to understand the situation properly, or survive the awakening of her heritage. So she got a meeting with a comforting figure, that her waking mind doesn't remember because super traumatic time and very young child, and Anubis has basically bundled up the power needed for the awakening, along with the memory of their meeting and a carefully compiled explanation with as much detail as he can think of her needing or asking, and attached to her soul by a metaphysical leash, leaving it outside her body until she comes of age.   
> Because it's Anubis, the power is - naturally - shaped like a jackal-like wolf to Darcy's eyes.  
> She basically has an invisible puppy that will grow up alongside her.


	3. Chapter Two: Of Puppies and Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy struggles with the trials and tribulations of high school, hormones, and instincts founded in a power older than nations.
> 
> Content Warning: Suicide and Depression. This is not a happy chapter. It was also not easy to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a while. I'm really bad at keeping to a schedule on things, and tend to hop around ideas a lot, so there's going to be a lot of waiting in between updates, sorry.  
> I have made a start on chapter four, but chapter three is still eluding my creativity. Turns out Tony is an attention stealing diva. I mean, who knew, right? I'm trying to work with Pepper and he just keeps barging in.

### Chapter Two: Of Puppies and Pack

In a small town in southern Kansas, a man in a rumpled and stained suit stood staring out over the fast running river, watching the foam hitting the sharp, hefty boulders of the rapids in bleak fascination. He could almost see the swirling streaks of red that would appear soon, whipping into the foam. It would be better, this way, he thought. No continuing spiral of problems. No soon-to-be-ex to continually disappoint. No hollow, empty nights spent staring at nothing, with no one to even notice his steady decline. 

Reaching out to pull himself up onto the stone barrier, he took a final look at the slowly setting sun.

And blinked in shock at the unexpected sight of a teenage girl in a rainbow coloured sweater standing casually beside him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him, quietly. There was no trace of judgement on her face, merely gentle understanding. “It’s not something you can take back once it’s done.”

“I… I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure.” He replied, still a little shocked and off balance from her seeming appearance from nowhere. “Look” and he glared at her suddenly “you’re just a kid. You should leave. This isn’t something you need to see.” 

“I know.” came the unnervingly serene response from the small brunette - who couldn’t be more than fourteen at a push. “But everybody needs someone to witness their final passing. I’m here, and you’re not alone. No one should be alone at the crossing of the threshold.” 

“The… what? What are you even talking about, kid? Just go home, and forget you saw me, okay? You’re not gonna talk me out of it, and you sure as shit shouldn’t be watching someone die in front of you!”

She just smiled at him, eerily unfazed by his increasingly erratic agitation. “I’m not here to talk you into or out of anything. I’m here to be the witness. To whatever choice you make. But you do need to be sure, in your heart, that this is what you want to do. Whatever the afterlife holds for you, it’s best faced in clear mind and certain knowledge of your choices.” 

As she spoke, he realised her eyes were distant, looking at him and through him without quite seeming to be part of the world around them. Her right hand was oddly angled, as though resting on the head of some animal that wasn’t there, and as the sun sank further down behind her, a matching flare of gold flickered around her eyes, as though tracing her eyelids in light.

Something in that strange light caught him, and he stilled. Looking into that unnervingly clear yet distant gaze. 

And seeing only himself. 

Shaken, he staggered back, and fled the bridge. From behind him, came a voice, like the girls, but strangely layered, as though from a great distance in a canyon.

“If it were truly your time, nothing would have stopped you. Live as you would wish to be judged by, and be true in your heart when at last you do cross over.”

And then, the bridge was held only a teenage girl, looking somewhat confused.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darcy Lewis was considered by many of her schoolmates to be something of an odd one. She had a tendency to wander off in the middle of conversations, she breezed through her school work while never once seeming to notice that her annual freak out over exams was in no way needed, she was constantly referring to something that the dog nobody ever saw had done, and most unnerving of all was the way that she would often just seem to suddenly be looking right through you, as if seeing or hearing an entirely different world or conversation. 

Most of the school either didn’t know who she was, or actively chose to avoid her. The freaky weirdo was uncomfortable to be around for any length of time, and the various jocks and nascent queen-bees of the school were not forgiving to people who were different. 

Darcy never really noticed. She had her music, her books and computer. Most importantly though, she had Anuba. She’d never really understood why everyone was so insistent that she didn’t have a dog. It wasn’t exactly easy to miss a great big black jackal-like canine with golden markings around its eyes, after all. But her parents were convinced that Anuba was a figment of her imagination, and her therapist had decided to label it as a defense mechanism; an imaginary dog to guard her against the cats and snake that she had developed a phobia towards after a near death experience as a child. Her mother was supposedly allergic to dogs, so her parents had rejected the suggestion of getting her a ‘real’ one, but they had accepted Anuba as just a harmless quirk.  
Darcy had quickly learned not to mention the moments when she just found herself knowing things. Apparently people found it disturbing and worrying to have the imminent death of a pet correctly mentioned off handedly. And she had never forgotten the looks on her parents faces when she spoke of the man who was going to get hit by a car. The way they had turned to her in shock and horror when the car came screaming around the corner they stood on not two minutes later, smashing the gentleman in his impeccable suit into and along the solid concrete wall haunted her for months. She stopped mentioning the people and creatures that she saw with loosening bonds between their bodies and an energy she instinctively knew was the soul after that. 

Anuba gave her a lot of comfort in the years to follow, never seeming to judge her for what she saw, and often standing between her and the occasional threat, with blood red and jagged spikes of aura seeping from their pores. She was not a popular girls at school, but with Anuba standing guard, somehow it was never Darcy who was the target for bullies, though anyone who tried to befriend her leapt to the top of the victims list. 

The years rolled on by, and Darcy began to notice boys. With that noticing came the first rush of hormones, and the first realisation of just how disconnected and apart from her peers she truly was. She also began to notice a slow increase in her secret talents; She began to see the auras of those around her in whatever state they held, not only when they had ill intentions or were close to death; there was the time she was walking home from school to suddenly find herself on the bridge with no memory of getting there, but a lingering sense of a brush with loosened aura; Anuba seemed to begin glowing softly at her touch; and the people around her started backing ever further away as her powers grew without ever seeming to know why. 

Needless to say, getting a date for Prom turned out to be impossible. There were only a few boys who she thought she could stand to be around for the entire evening to begin with, and every one of them practically ran from her when she tried to talk to them. The fact that they were all nerds and geeks like her meant that they got enough bullying as it was, and one particularly brave - or guilty - one actually took the time to blurt out an apology that also told her just how quickly any perceived friend of hers became the prime target for bullies. 

That was the first time she truly saw how alone she really was.

On Prom night, Darcy was sitting on a hillside outside of town, crying into Anuba’s fur.

 

The final years of High School saw her descend into a spiral of depression and manic over-exuberance where she tried to out stubborn the loneliness by throwing herself into learning everything possible about anything that took her fancy at the time. 

They also saw her hospitalised for overdosing three times. 

 

Through it all, Anuba sat steadfastly by her side.  
And an elegant black cat with gold eyes watched sadly from a distance. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anubis sat in his hall. Worrying.

Three times now, he had felt a faint call from his little girl.  
Three times she had come within a hair's breadth of the mists that guarded the Veils Threshold. 

And not once had there ever been a hint of a force other than her own being involved in it. 

Bast had refused to come near him since the near catastrophe of her last interference in his Child’s life, spending most of her time in her mortal realm host to watch the girl, and refused to tell him what she saw.

He listened to the sounds of the mist, and cursed his inability to do anything but wait, and worry. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Darcy graduated.  
Celebrated alone.  
Buried the only parents she could remember. 

Laid herself down in a crumbling mausoleum.  
Opened her wrists and watched the bonds of her own soul begin to fray as Anuba howled.

Outside the mausoleum, an elegant black cat yowled in fear, and the gold spark in its eyes vanished.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A curvy brunette in a brightly coloured but battered old jumper stood in a swirling mist.  
Something about this place was familiar, though she could not place why.  
Beside her, a jackal with gold lined eyes glowed softly.

Following some half remembered dream, the pair set forth through the mists, heading towards what slowly resolved itself into an ancient looking Egyptian temple.


	4. Chapter Three: Crows Call, Natural Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morrigan builds with flesh and bone,  
> Pepper stands by a forge-sparked throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I know. It's been a while. I am super, super bad at planning things, so we just get whatever appears whenever.  
> Sorry!
> 
> This chapter was kinda hard because I wanted it to be about Pepper, not Tony, and he is a diva who refuses to stay low key unless heavily cut out of everything. Chapter five is done, but will take a while to upload, as I'm still struggling to balance the events of Iron Man 2 and Thor in Chapter four. There's quite a bit of hopping around, and blending my changes in with the canon without getting thrown way off track is tricky.

### 3\. Chapter Three - Crows call, Natural Steel.

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Virginia Potts was born to a long line of blue collar workers in New Haven, Connecticut, as the eldest of three sisters, by a gap of seven years. Consequently, she was more often than not to be found caring for her younger sisters from the age of ten, splitting her time between keeping an inquisitive toddler and a hyperactive five year old occupied and away from dangerous things in the afternoons when school let out, preparing the evening meal, and studying diligently in the evenings when their parents returned from work.

 

Later, when she found herself rising from the ranks of the Stark Industries secretarial pool to become the personal assistant for Tony Stark himself, she would bless that early experience in managing unruly and distractible children while ruthlessly organising her workload. By the end of college she had developed her organisational skill to an artform of mathematical precision and efficiency that her sisters had often called terrifying as they reached their teenage years. The years to come as the longest lasting and most effective of the Stark PA’s would sing a silent yet ringing testimony to her skill, and for a time she was truly happy with her life.

And then Tony Stark vanished. Lost in hostile territory halfway around the world after making a pitch and demonstration of the latest new weapon to a bunch of Generals.

What followed was three months of hell as she forced herself to keep doing as much of her work as she could, all the while worrying and waiting for news of the callous, self-centered, generous, caring man who had become more than just her employer. 

Three months of watching helplessly as nothing came back from the searches.  
Three months of working with Obadiah Stane, pretending not to mind the smug condescension in his every word to her.

Three months of crows.

They were everywhere...  
On phone wires and gutters as she walked down the street...  
Flying overhead as she drove...  
Strutting along the window ledges as she worked...  
... by the second month, they were even haunting her dreams on flickering wings. Dreams which were made ever more uneasy by flashes of blood stained shirts and gristled bone, the harsh cry of a raven echoing over all.

The miraculous return of the man most believed to be long dead came as an intense relief, then, when in addition to having Tony safe and home, she also found her dreams losing much of their stark clarity and the visions of blood faded from her memory. 

She even managed to firmly persuade herself that the crows had gone or didn’t actually matter. Clearly there was just a larger number of them in the area than she had realised, and served as something for her brain to latch on to in a time of turmoil and grief.  
Obviously.

And then came the revelation of Iron Man, and Obadiah Stane’s betrayal. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Rushing to the Arc Reactor, moving to set the whole thing up to blow at Tony’s call, Pepper couldn’t help but feel that she really should be at least slightly panicking by now. But there was no panic to be found. Even when Stane was chasing her in his suit, she hadn’t been panicked… she had been excited, and strangely… settled? Like this was exactly her place and time?  
Standing by the button, showered in broken glass that left not a scratch on her, she was completely unafraid for herself; all of her worry was somehow for Tony. 

 

The call came.  
Knowing the risk he was taking, she wavered.

Then, even as Tony yelled down to her again, she was staring at a row of birds - a raven flanked by two crows - which had somehow flown in and against all natural sense, landed on the bar in front of her.  
The crows looked accusing.  
The raven, expectant.

She hit the button.

 

As the pulse of power blasted out and then up from the overloaded arc reactor, several things happened.

First; Pepper was hit in the back by the energy, throwing her violently forwards to meet the jagged and broken concrete below.  
Second; Tony Stark was blasted off his precarious perch and onto the roof, head unprotected with the helmet crushed and discarded in the battle.  
Third; Obadiah Stane was hit by the massive burst of electricity and fried within his own oversized suit.

To Pepper, everything stopped.

 

The sudden cessation of noise left a ringing in her ears even as she became aware that she was hovering on black wings above the devastated building, looking down at her own body with red hair fanning about her head like blood.

Then she saw two hazy lights, one soaked in red and laced with black, the other a shining flame, slowly rising from the rooftop below.  
Instinctively, without even knowing how she knew what this was, she acted.

Swooping down faster than thought, she blasted the slowly guttering yet still painfully bright flame with buffeting winds from her wings, forcing it back into the red and gold cased body beneath it, screaming at him that he was Not. Allowed. To. Die. Tony! 

As the fires returned to their forge, she turned to the other, slowly evaporating mess of stinking carrion, and shrieked at it with all the force of her pent up hatred, betrayal, rage and fury. It was with great satisfaction that she saw the final scraps of cohesion literally shredded and cast to the winds.  
Obadiah Stane was dead, and he was never coming back.

 

With that satisfaction swelling inside of her, reason and logic came crashing back, and she in turn went crashing back into her body as her mind and spirit caught up to the fact that it really didn’t make any sense that they were out here in the first place. 

Shaken, Pepper prised her aching body off the unforgiving concrete of the shattered parking lot, only distantly aware that she was nowhere near as hurt as she should have been.

Dazed, she looked about her, slowly registering the eerie silence that had not yet left. The sparks of electricity hovering in mid air about the broken wires. The flames that refused to crackle and flicker. 

The Raven perched on a slab of pavement before her.

 

And then there was no raven at all, but a woman. Tall, slender, and wild, with flowing red hair and toned physique beneath torn skirts and painted woad, a mantle of feathers black and glossy as the ravens wings adorning her shoulders, and a blood dipped spear in hand.

She smiled, proud and feral. And Pepper filled with a warmth she had never known she lacked.

“Well done, my child.” 

The woman’s voice was rough, rasping like the call of a crow on the wind, making the very air shiver with its power, and in every breath and syllable there was a resonance of meaning and the hidden echo of fates innumerable.

“Know this, Child of my Line. Daughter of my Blood. Heir to my Crown. Trials there are for such as we. Three are my aspects, and three are my Trials. You stand upon the battlefield, on the threshold of the fallen, and you have made the Choice of Warriors Fates as I once did.  
A Battle won, a Life Claimed, and a Warrior protected.  
Badb Catha thou art. Battle Crow. She whose cry calls victory or loss, and gatherer of the slain. 

A Queen thou mayst be.  
A King thou hast chosen. 

The Child of the Forge has trials of his own ahead, and thou stand by thine own choice beside him. Macha lies before you, if the Trials thou can pass, for no Crown comes in truth to those who do not earn it, who cannot pay its price. 

Learn fast.  
Stand firm.  
Embrace the power you hold.  
Earn the power yet to come. 

The Age of Monsters comes once more, and thy chosen role shall place thee at battles heart.  
Blood of my Blood gathers the fallen.  
Heir to my Crown protects Heroes and people alike.  
Voice of my Fury Unleashed turns the tides of Battles Fate

Heed thy fates.  
Earn thy place.

Stand unbending before the storm, for though other children there be, thou art Special.  
Thou art the Morrigan’s Child.”

 

The woman wavered, vanished, and a raven flew off into the night, leaving Pepper to stand dazedly in the midst of destruction as sound and time came flooding back like a great wave crashing down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Later, as Pepper forcibly and determinedly ignored the crow that seemed now to always be with her and was currently perched on a window ledge outside the press conference, she would look up at Tony taking the stand, and suddenly Know what was about to happen.

Even as he hesitated before saying the fateful words, Pepper was groaning softly to herself in despair.

“I am Iron Man.”

Her palm was already halfway to her face.


End file.
